


I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles

by ghostie_withthemostie



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Drug Use, F/M, Face Punching, Face Slapping, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Swearing, The Flesh Curtains, young rick sanchez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6047500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostie_withthemostie/pseuds/ghostie_withthemostie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re Rick’s favorite groupie, and sometimes it falls on you to motivate him when he parties a little too hard before a show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles

**Author's Note:**

> i like to beat up Rick Sanchez it makes me hot idk  
> enjoy  
> fic title from Halsey's song 'Trouble'

“Five minutes, Rick.”

You hear Rick’s grunt at the assistant’s time call. Your eyes slowly drift open, staring upward at his face from your position in his lap. Rick’s eyelids are fluttering, fighting the heaviness resulting from the copious liquor and drugs you’d been sharing for the past few hours.

You lick your dry lips, struggling to force the words out through the chemical haze. “Rick…you-you gotta get on stage.” You only slur a little. _Victory_.

Rick groans, fitting his hand to cover your mouth. You protest by flicking your tongue against his palm, which makes him hiss lazily and give you a light slap across your cheek.

“Gross,” he mutters and shifts his hips beneath you, rocking your head.

Sitting up laboriously, you twist to grab him by his long locks, wrapping your fingers in the light blue hair at his temples. “Time. To. Go.” You punctuate each word with a light shake, his head flopping forward and back limply. You sigh at his lack of response, rolling your neck and preparing for what was necessary. Reaching your hand back, you land a hard smack across one of his lifeless cheeks. Rick’s eyes snap open sharply, locking on yours. His pupils slowly dilate, one corner of his mouth lifting in a snarl.

“Again,” he growls. Huffing, you repeat the action with some extra force, making Rick’s head snap to one side. His fingers dig into your waist, dragging you harder into his lap, his cock stirring against one of your thighs. When you lift your stinging palm to give him another, your wrist is snatched and Rick’s long fingers curl over yours, tucking them to form a fist. He brings it gently to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles as he holds your gaze, eyes hooded and dark. “A-again,” his gravelly voice is hardly a murmur.

You don’t hesitate, pulling your arm back and slamming it forward with as much strength as you can throw behind it. There’s an audible crunch as your first two knuckles collide with Rick’s nose, the jab jarring and shooting bolts of pain up your arm to your elbow. Rick swears with a groan as his head is knocked back on his neck from the impact. When he tilts his face forward again, it’s lit with by a manic, fevered grin, two sluggish trails of dark blood dripping from his nostrils to roll over his lips and down his chin. He mashes his sticky-slick lips against yours, the taste of his blood mixing with the liquor still lingering on both of your tongues. The flavors morph into something brand new, a taste unique to the strange relationship that Rick and you share: harsh, sweet, and slightly mad. You moan into his mouth, shifting in his lap until your legs settle on either side of his thighs, rubbing yourself against his growing, leather-trapped erection.

Gone now was the lazy, drug-induced haze of only a few moments ago. Your veins now pumped with aroused adrenaline and a wild tinge of bloodlust. Frantic hands reached between you as Rick tore through your fishnet stockings at the crotch, pushing your underwear aside and pumping two fingers inside you vigorously. Moaning, you begin tugging at the fastenings of his pants, popping the button clean off in your frenzied haste. When his organ is free, you give it two quick, cursory pumps as you slick up your other palm with your tongue and reach between your legs to smear it over your entrance, knocking Rick’s hand out of the way in the process. You lift yourself and settle over him, sinking down with one sharp thrust. Both of your moans echo off the dressing room walls.

You start to roll and buck against him, but Rick soon seizes control, holding you steady with a strong grip on your hips and thrusting up from beneath you. His eyes are squeezed shut, a prominent line etched between his eyebrows as he concentrates all of his energy on the task at hand. He’s muttering, a stream of “fuck”s and “shit”s, his blood-drenched lips spraying flecks of red onto your face as he hisses and swears. Behind you, the door opens, the assistant sticking his head in to remind Rick he’s supposed to be on stage. You are dimly aware of his garbled, embarrassed stutters when he realizes what is taking place.

Rick lunges forward, one arm wrapping around your back to keep himself buried in you, his other reaching for the half-filled ashtray on the coffee table. He hurls it with abandon in the general direction of the door, bellowing “Fuck off!” as he settles you on your back on the coffee table, his hips gaining speed as the new angle gives him more range of movement. The door slams immediately following the shatter of glass as it strikes the frame. Poor kid.

You moan underneath Rick, wrapping your legs around his waist, trapping him and keeping his thrusts shallow and savage. Lines of crimson are still flowing copiously as a result of your strike to his nose, but he doesn’t seem at all fazed. You arch forward, dragging a tongue over his chin and lips to taste him again. This makes Rick groan, his lust-darkened eyes settling on your lips as you clean them of all traces of his blood. There’s pounding on the door now. Sounds like reinforcements were brought this time. Their words and shouts seem far away as all of your mental faculties become hyper-focused on your impending orgasm. Rick’s thrusts become more erratic as he nears his own completion, as well.

“Me, now,” you pant, grabbing one of Rick’s hands so he understands.

Rick’s forehead creases, “Y-You sure?”

You land as solid of a blow as you can manage against his side, making him grunt and then chuckle breathlessly. “Allllllright, then.” He raises a fist and presses it to his lips for a kiss before he cocks his elbow and releases it, his knuckles colliding against your cheek with enough impact for you to see stars. The pain pushes you over the crest and you come, shaking and screaming at the intensity of both sensations. Rick joins you almost immediately, twitching and jerking as his cock empties itself inside of you.

The door is slammed open once more and you both turn your heads lazily toward it. Birdperson stands in the doorway, flanked on either side by Squanchy (who looks amused), the band’s manager (who does not), and the assistant (who looks frankly terrified). He stoically observes the two of you, bloodied, bruised, and sex-tousled, before sighing and walking over to disentangle Rick from between your legs.

“It is time to be on stage, Rick. Let’s go,” Birdperson grabs him by the neck of his vest and starts to drag, Rick’s softening cock hanging free as he stumbles to keep up. From the hallway, you can hear Squanchy’s shrill voice, “Jesus, Rick, what the fuck happened to _you?_ Put your dick away, shit.” There’s a scuffle outside the door and Rick appears once more, gripping the doorframe as he winks and blows you a quick kiss before being dragged away again bodily by one or both of his bandmates.

Your lips curl at the corners in amusement as you feel around on the table for Rick’s flask. Your cheek is already throbbing and the numbing quality of a good buzz is definitely going to be welcome.

 


End file.
